


See it Through

by talina



Series: Lifetime of Adventure [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Ableism, Disability, Friendship, Gen, OC's for plot, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-28 14:32:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18209597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talina/pseuds/talina
Summary: Prowl is determined to make a name of himself, and he won't let something as insignificant as a disability to stand in the way of his dreams. He is a student of Iacon University, and despite his struggles he's determined to succeed. And with some help along the way he might just get there.Edit: I added a short summary of the first part to the start of chapter 3 so reading the first part is not necessary.





	1. Chapter 1

When you’re up against a trouble,  
Meet it squarely, face to face;  
Lift your chin and set your shoulders,  
Plant your feet and take a brace.  
When it’s vain to try to dodge it,  
Do the best that you can do;  
You may fail, but you may conquer,  
See it through!  
See it Trough By Edgar Albert Guest

Prowl drew in a deep vent and held it. Around him, the Iacon Main Transport Station bustled with mechs arriving and leaving. The crowd was unlike anything he had ever seen in Praxus. Due to their sensitive wings, Praxians appreciated their personal space and preferred to walk with certain distance between themselves and strangers. Thus, Praxian crowds were for the most part calm and orderly with no touching or pushing. Accidental touch was considered rude and touching a sensory wing very offensive.

Iacon was the capital city-state of Cybertron and as such, it was much more densely populated. The crowd here filled every available space and mechs brushed casually against each other as they hurried to get to their destination, unbothered by the contact.

Prowl remained frozen to the spot, huddled against one of the absolutely towering pillars that rose from the tiled floor towards the high crystal ceiling. The diameter of the pillar was 5.76 times Prowl’s own width and offered some protection against the steadily flowing flood of travelers. The transport station was a large and open space with plenty of natural light streaming in from the see-through ceiling. It was old, and had many decorative carvings in its design. Prowl figured he could stay right were he was and admire the architecture until he felt brave enough to join the crowd. Or until the crowds lessened. Whichever came first.

Primus, he thought he’d left this kind of pandemonium behind when he moved up from his sparkling classes!

He had a long journey from Praxus behind him and he was both tired and hungry. He missed his Caretaker at the Home, she had been his unwavering support after his progenitor had deactivated. 

Marrum had given her all to help him, when he’d been struggling to make his way trough his life, one orn at a time. He had crashed frequently, sometimes several times an orn and Marrum had always been there, her field around him and her low, gentle voice in his audio. He’d power up in her powerful, thick arms, to a feeling he had learned to identify as safety. Marrum had helped him recognize and sort his emotions until his crashes grew more sporadic and he felt like he could function on his own again, like and independent mech.

He missed Marrum. 

He wanted to run to her and curl in her protective embrace. Even now, though he was already second decavorn youngling, he could still fit easily in her arms. Marrum was – had always been – very free with her affection. She would sweep him in her arms and hold him just because she though he looked like he needed a hug. Being as big as she was, she could easily lift even average sized mechs in her metro-titan hugs and more than one sulking youngling had found themselves trapped in her arms until they gave in and accepted her comfort.

But Marrum was not just his caretaker. Marrum was a worker in Aegis, Home for Mechlings, and mechlings came in and they left. The workers devoted themselves to their charges wholesparkedly, but when a mechling reached adulthood and left, the obligations ended. Prowl knew some kept in touch, informed the much-loved workers of Aegis how they were doing and even visited sometimes. But Prowl didn’t know how to keep in casual touch, without feeling like he was dependent on them. He feared if he had an opportunity, he would balk at the next difficulty and just run back to Aegis, to Marrum’s waiting arms. 

Because Marrum would welcome him back. But he was only welcome in Aegis until he reached his adulthood, after which he would be forced to move out so younger-ones could move in.

No, Marrum had been wonderful caretaker and Prowl would remember her with warmth, but it was time to leave it all behind. He had nothing in Praxus. It was time to make his life here in Iacon, to find himself a new place in society and build a new home.

And this time he would be the one who decided. He would, from now on, be the master of his own life, and be responsible of his own happiness.

No longer would he be dependent on others like he had been on his progenitor. He would never be in anyone’s mercy like he had been at Quickrun’s. He wouldn’t tiptoe around someone else in his own home, wouldn’t twist his own wings to make someone else notice him, to acknowledge him, to love him. He would never be trapped how he had been, before. His wings canted with determination and he looked up at the crowd. 

It was still frightening, but this was Iacon and Iacon was where he would now live.

One crowd would not scare him away.

Tucking his sensory wings Prowl pushed away from the safety of the pillar and walked deeper into the busy Station.


	2. Chapter 2

Finding his way to the right exit and from there to the right transport was not as easy as Prowl had hoped. Part of it was no doubt influenced by how out of sync he felt with his surroundings. Despite finally daring to enter the crowd, his fear of it had gone nowhere and Prowl was starting to realize that fear affected his way of thinking whether he wanted to acknowledged it or not.

Still, even if it did not go quite as seamlessly as Prowl imagined, in the end he was sitting in the right transport. Public transport was a way to reduce the traffic, but also served as an alternative to avoid driving if one didn’t want or couldn’t drive. Prowl preferred driving, but in new city it was easier to take in your surroundings through transport windows.

He sat pressed against the wall, trying to tuck his wings in without smashing them uncomfortably against the wall. It was very clear Iacon did not have a large population of winged mecha. It was understandable, since only Praxians and Vosians had any proper wings. There were shuttles and rotors, but they didn’t really count since they did not form a separate frame type. Both were like mini-bots, convoys and triple-changers: they were sub-categories within a frame type. Praxus didn’t have mini-bots or rotors, but Prowl had met several Praxian tirple-changers and he’d seen a few shuttles and convoy-class mechs.

In fact, Marrum had been a convoy, which explained her size. She was twice the size of most mechs. 

But wings, they were sometimes as problematic as extreme size. They were overly sensitive, every touch feeling invasive and to Prowl Iacon was simply too loud. The transport was full, and the mech sitting next to Prowl was invading his personal place. He had a large box in his servos, and this led to his elbows poking Prowl every time the transport took a right turn. Prowl debated the pros and cons of either moving or commenting, but the transport was full and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

He just needed to make it to the campus and there his overseer would take over.

Another poke. Prowl pressed himself closer to the wall.

Xx

The Iacon Central University was a sight to behold. It was an enormous area that consisted of dozens of large buildings. It was no surprise considering the amount of subjects thought there. It stood right next to the only Military Academy in Cybertron, and housed the Faculties of Science, Medicine, Law and Order, History, Mathematics, Engineering, Art and Literature. In addition there were several additional Lines of Study such as Psychology, Communications, Media and Culture and many others. The campus was the very center of Cybertronian knowledge and skills. In Iacon Central University a mech could study almost anything he wished, and if clever enough, combine almost any areas of studies to suit his needs.

It was precisely the latter part that had drawn Prowl in. From the moment Prowl remembered having truly conscious thought, he remembered calculating. He would play with the numbers and again and again fall in love with the endless possibilities he discovered there. As he began to understand his environment, he began to apply the numbers, algorithms and equations and slowly make sense of the world he lived in.

As he grew, he found what he loved most was to calculate the changes. From there he moved to statistics and probabilities and eventually to optimization. Mathematics was something he understood, unlike the mechs around him. Soon, he began to make observation and try to discover ways to calculate the best possible action to achieve a result he wanted. He noticed that if he treated certain actions as variables, reactions to them as outcomes and different factors as changing variables in an equation, he would be able to construct algorithms that could, with crude approximation, predict likelihood of certain outcomes as percentages.

To calculate something with so many variables as interactions between mechanisms required astounding amount of processing power. But Prowl believed he could, with enough time and research, learn to predict group actions accurately. Groups of mecha were more predictable, since they amounted to the average of several individual actions.

This was Prowl’s ability, a skill completely unique to him. It would make him valuable and secure his life even with the black marks in his reputation. He was a young mech, orphaned and without connections. He had a mark of using psychiatric services for vorns, aggressive behavior resulting in suspension in his school record, and a processor glitch.

Prowl knew each factor alone could prevent a mech from finding a function. All of them together meant he would have to work twice as hard if he wanted true recognition. He would never be satisfied working as no-one in some unimpressive, unimportant office.

No, he wanted to be a someone that would be remembered. He wanted to be recorded, remembered in the old achieves of Iacon. If he succeeded in developing his ability to its fullest, if he found a way to make it useful, to make it work, then maybe he would succeed despite his handicaps. 

Prowl lifted his chin, some of his courage returned to him as he thought of his goals that still were, despite everything, in his reach. Determined he started walking toward the entrance building, which held the large auditorium and administrative offices.

Iacon Central University was large enough to form an entire mini-city within the city of Iacon. The campus itself was large enough for it to have its own roads for transportation, street names and transport vehicles specialized in helping mechs to get where they needed. In addition to this there were the club houses, shops and, of course, the housing units. Thousands of mechs lived, studied or worked in the University Town, as it was known. 

Prowl wondered if he would ever feel at home here.

He’d downloaded the map in order to have any hope of making sense of the old, and thus confusing, architecture. As he walked towards the main doors he flared his wings, comparing what he sensed to the map he studied on his HUD. The area was intimidatingly vast and just as busy. The main entrance doors barely closed before swinging open again, mechs walking in an out constantly. 

With no little discomfort Prowl noted many were staring at him. Vosians loved their city, but they loved exploring even more and thus the University was full of curious Vosians learning science or studying to become explores or military scouts. Anything which would offer them chance to explore, be it Cybertron, the space or another subject of their interest. It was for a reason that Vosian frames were rather common frame type to be seen in the colonies.

Praxians were not known to venture much outside their city and even fewer chose to live outside it. They were rather like Kaonites in this regard. Of course the Iacon University had its fair share of Praxians since it was largest University on Cybertron. In fact, Prowl knew there was at least one other student from his Educational Centre in Praxus, possibly more. 

Uncomfortable with the looks his frame was gathering, even if they were only cursory glances, he hurried to the doors and slipped in behind a mech walking in front of him. Form there, he made quick work to the administration office and found the office of the student coordinator. From there he’d received his apartment, student id and passwords. 

The mech sitting behind the desk was tall and intimidating. Undoubtedly used to dealing with all sorts of folk coming in and out and wrangling their issues, the mech sat straight in his chair, the field around him informing Prowl this mech did not stand for any trouble. Wings tucking down respectively, Prowl flared his field for permission to enter.

The mech looked up from his datawork, field extending briefly in greeting before both mechs withdrew, fields settling so close they didn’t mingle even as Prowl settled to the quest chair in front of the desk after being invited to sit.

The name glyphs outside the door read Highwind, although since this was Iacon and not Praxus, they could also be read as Strongwind. And if one wanted to get technical, it could also mean Strong-gale, Storm or Highcurrent. The problem with glyphs was that any given glyph could have a multitude of meanings depending on the context and dialect. Name glyphs could have several, some nearly a hundred different meaning. All were abridged versions of a longer meaning and a name glyph could be written out so the actual meaning was clear or as shortened version for practicality. Prowl hated the imprecise nature of glyphs and actually preferred the more accurate alphabet used to short hand research notes. 

Unlike traditional glyphs, which were logosyllabic, the Coptic alphabet was actually segmental and had a glyph for each sound. This allowed no room for different interpretation. This was useful when writing fast and precisely. Medics and scientists in particular preferred to write in Coptic.

Highwind (or Strongwind) put away his datawork and gazed at Prowl over his large desk, lip plated pressed together and optics sharp. Prowl reached out a servo in secondary greeting even as he gave his designation and citizen identification number. Highwind reached out to touch his servo to Prowl’s as he spoke.

“Greetings, Prowl. My designation is Strongwind and I am responsible for new students. I assign them to their housing, enter them in as students and then direct them to their starting schedule. You have been accepted after graduating early with outstanding results.” Strongwind (he should have known it would be the more popular Iaconian interpretation) opened Prowl’s datawork even as he spoke, scrolling though the data. “You have received a subsidy, which goes straight to your account, I’m assuming you know how to manage your finances.” 

The last was not a question, despite being worded so. As most students were adults or near so, it was assumed they knew how to handle their money so it lasted, or they could apply for financial counseling. Prowl gave an affirmative wing tip anyway, even if Strongwind didn’t look away from his datawork. And since few were familiar with wing-gestures, Strongwind would not have understood it even if he had seen it.

“I will enter your information to our student database and give you your identification. With it you will have certain advantages such as a discount in the energon dispensers on campus. The identification number will allow you to move freely on the campus and give access to databases, libraries and achieves. They will allow you into the laboratories and lecture halls as well and it is needed in order to watch and record lecture feeds. I assume I do not need to inform you of the consequences if you share those recordings without permission. If you have any problems, please contact the IT department. If you are asked to introduce yourself, please attach the student identification after your glyph.”

Prowl listened as Strongwind rattled off the instructions with the tone of one who repeated same things several times each cycle, orns on end. Clear and precise but with monotone voice.  
As he spoke, Strongwind transferred Prowl’s information to the student database: His address, official communication frequency, frame type and origin. As he reached the few medical files open for him, he stopped and frowned, his field filled with distaste and slightest bit of contempt. 

Prowl could guess what information Strongwind was accessing and his wings tucked to his back in apprehension. 

“Your medical files state you have a incurable processor glitch.” 

Prowl wanted to flinch at the words, reminding him painfully of his new condition. Strongwind’s frown deepened as his optics flickered up to look at Prowl, taking in him and looking like he expected Prowl to have some disfiguration, something visible that would give away his disability. 

His mouth drew into a distasteful line. “Are you sure you informed the faculty of your condition when you applied? Glitched mecha can generally barely function in a normal society, let alone able to study at the high level we expect of our students?” The words were said in a cold tone, Strongwind’s field broadcasting his contempt and disbelief clearly.

Prowl refused to let his wings droop or his optics to look anywhere but right back at Strongwind as he answered. He had every right to be here, slag it!

“Yes, I did. They were fully informed of my condition as I applied. I have been set with medical alert and several coded programs to help me deal with the issue. It does not hinder my ability to study here and in no way disqualifies me from being a student here.” 

Strongwind clicked his vocalizer with clear displeasure and returned his gaze to Prowl’s information. “This also states that you’ve had problems with behavior. Aggressive behavior, to be exact.”

This time Prowl could not prevent the small flinch of his wings. Was that information still in his public records? He hadn’t had any trouble in vorns. A fact that had to be part of his record as well. Prowl could not deny it and he knew there was no excuse for hurting others, so he stayed silent. Riverbeat, his old teacher, had taught him again and again to accept his responsibility when facing the consequences of his temper and explanations were rarely helpful. Usually they resulted in mechs thinking he was trying to avoid the blame.

Strongwind frowned when the youngling gave no further answer. He could see the mention was vorns old, but Iacon University prided itself in its student and this mechling looked like more trouble than he was worth even before he had started. A processor glitch! What was the faculty thinking, letting someone like him to enter the University? One public episode and he would bring much unwanted attention, he could do anything when the glitch was activated! Some even attacked others, for Primus’ sake! 

But Strongwind had no say in who was accepted and who was not. He could only try and impress the importance of good and proper behavior. Hopefully this mech had enough sense in his processor left to keep low profile and not draw any attention.

“I hope you understand that Iacon University is respected establishment. Fights or unbecoming behavior are not accepted and I hope you will keep low profile while you are here. You may be allowed to study here but it would be best if you didn’t make yourself to stand out. I don’t want to hear you bringing any negative attention to this University. There will be no special treatment for you and any….episodes should be kept quiet.” Optics sharp, Strongwind observed the youngling. Prowl’s optics had slid down and to the side, his wings giving a funny flick, but otherwise he didn’t react. No acknowledgement, and no change in his expression. Strongwind pursued his lips in displeasure, was the youngling being insolent? He knew these glitched ones had no idea of what was proper behavior!

With sharp movements he set down the datapad holding Prowl’s identification as well as other documentation. He took a key-card from its safety box and set it next to the datapad.

“Your information and your key to your apartment. Dismissed.”

Prowl swiped them in his servos with one quick move and left the office as quickly as he could without running, disheartened but relieved. Strongwind was scary and he didn’t want to spend a click longer in his presence. But as far as first impressions went, he had not succeeded at all. As Prowl walked towards the entrance doors he hoped fervently this would not be a pattern.

xxXXxx

He found his apartment without trouble. It was situated at the edge of the campus, one of the tall residential buildings that stood in neat rows on both side of the street. They were uniform, blocky and undecorated. Mass-produced as much as a building could be, all identical and just as ugly. No shine and no paint, just dull greyed metal, not high quality but durable enough. A far cry from the older or newer buildings with their shiny metals and paints and beautiful carvings and decorations. These houses were not meant to be lived in for longer periods of time. They offered cheap housing for students for the time they stayed here but no-one would live here longer than they had to.

The grounds around the buildings had some crystals, an effort made to make the area look more welcoming. It wasn’t so bad, all things considered. There was no littering and the buildings seemed to be in good condition. It was a place for mechs with low income to live in.

The elevator worked, but lights flickered on and off once during the trip. The building was tall, and the elevator trip took nearly a groon. The hallway outside was narrow, dimly lit and just as dreary as the exterior of the building. His door was identical to the five more on the corridor. The light of the locking mechanism flashed green as Prowl used his card. Once inside he could set a code for the door so he’d only need to send a command to open it.

The inside was similar to the outside. Low quality building materials, small and shabby but well maintained. The room was incredibly small, the berth taking up most of the space. As Prowl stepped in, the berth and a small table sat straight on his left, with a short wall forming something that resembled an entry. On his right stood two doors with energon dispenser in between. One door led to equally cramped washrack, another to a small closet. The wall ended by forming a small cooking niche for those who wished to ingest something other than pure energon.

Straight ahead was a desk, with a big window above it and a nice reading chair in the corner between his berth and desk, the space between the two was just enough for a mech to walk through. 

No blankets or pillows, though. Of course there weren’t, since Iaconians didn’t consider them part of a necessary furnishing. He’d have to buy some the moment he could.

Prowl let the door slide shut behind him before leaning back against it. For the first time since entering Strongwind’s office, he vented properly and heated air rushed out.

He’d known he’d face prejudice. He’d known it. But being faced with it the moment he’d stepped in to the University had been unsettling and had left him more shaken than he’d thought he would be. Marrum had not given anyone even a chance of treating him any different and this was his first interaction outside Marrum’s protection.

He was more scared than he wanted to admit. What if his condition would spread among the staff? What if he crashed publicly? What if one of the other Praxians would spread rumors about him? There would be no escaping his past, it had followed him here to Iacon despite his foolish hopes of getting a fresh start.

Prowl let his legs fold underneath him as he slid down the door to curl up against the door. His wings quivered, folded tightly on his back. He pressed his face against his knee guards and for a moment, hid from the world he didn’t want to face. Then he resolutely stood up and forced his wings up and open.

He’d come this far, he’d be damned to give up now just because one stupid manager. With a few brisk steps he was by the desk and pulled out a datapad, settling on the chair decidedly not designed for anyone with wings. 

He had a schedule to design.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short summary of the first part for those who want it:  
> Prowl's creators were Quickrun and Highlight. When Prowl was the equivalent of a toddler, Highlight deactivated in a traffic accident while saving Prowl who'd crawled to the street. Quickrun's spark pretty much died with his mate, and he became very withdrawn. That was the end of his love for Prowl. Prowl grew up alone and severely neglected, resulting in panic attacks and behavioural issues like aggressive behaviour and social difficulties, making him rather unpopular. He fell very ill twice, resulting in his glitch because he didn't receive medical attention in time. Second time, his teacher Riverbeat saved him and the extension of his neglect was realised. Before that they knew there were some difficulties and Prowl even attended Psychiatric services. Prowl still lived at home afterwards until Quickrun deactivated himself. Prowl found him and then ended up in Aegis, which is equivalent of an orphanage. He was happy there, though. He worked hard and got stipend to study in Iacon. Due to his upbringing, or lac of it, he's got pretty unique processor set-up.

 

Prowl attended classes at both the Military Academy at the north side and Mathematical faculty at the east side. In addition, he’d signed up for administration and datawork. Both fairly easy classes but they gave him some experience in handling and gathering data he wanted. And, in case he couldn’t find work otherwise, he could always work in administration or as secretary.

 

In Military Academy he studied Tactics and Strategy as well as anything related to them. He wasn’t truly part of the Academy and as such he didn’t learn anything about combat. He would be able to work either as an enforcer or as a strategist after some additional training, but only outside of any actual combat situations unless he actually joined either Enforcer or Military Academy. He could also work just as well as a tactician, but strategy would be his primary area of expertise.

 

In mathematics Prowl studied everything he could, but mostly what he thought would help him develop his processing units towards his goals. He believed he could create algorithms, which could predict the success of certain actions within the parameters he set. When he wasn’t sitting on lectures or attending group practice, he was sitting in the library reading, or in the archieves studying age-old mathematical theories to see if he could use them, or in empty workrooms, entering his equations into a simulator to see how they worked. And his equations were _long_. One had taken an entire cycle to write out.

 

He’d created a routine for himself, even if it varied within his chosen activities. By no means did he attend all lectures available to him. During his time in Educational Centre, he’d learned to study independently, and with clear goals and endless amount of information available, he often preferred to study alone.

 

This also meant he had barely spoken to anyone. His frame –discounting his wings— and paint were fairly unassuming, forgettable even. He was small and kept his wings as still as possible, tucked shyly close to his back. His field was quiet and indrawn and he avoided optic contact. His mannerism allowed him to fade and just be part of the mass, unnoticed and ignored.

 

Prowl was mostly fine with it. Avoiding interaction meant he also minimized any risk of making a scene, either because of his behavior or crashing. His fear of public crashing had him waking during his recharge with his spark spinning frantically.

 

Sometimes he was startle awake because of _other_ memory fluxes. But he preferred not to think about them.

 

But despite feeling marginally safer with the familiar isolation, he couldn’t deny he had a need for some interaction. It had been long since he’d been this alone. In Aegis, he’d had friends, when he’d been youngling he’d had Riverbeat. Now he didn’t talk with the Professor’s either, afraid they would know of his glitch and be disgusted with him.

 

His glitch had been manageable in his time in the University. He still crashed in fairly regular basis, but not once had it happened completely uncontrollably. Be it in his apartment or in University, he managed to push it off until he had found a safe place. He hadn’t had a single logic-only crash, but neither had he had a purely emotional one either. He preferred the logic-caused lock-ups, since they were much easier, but purely emotional ones were in turn nearly catastrophic to him. They left him confused and disorientated, tired and in pain. If he had one in a strange place, he wouldn’t be able to get himself home. He’d have to activate his medical tracer, if it didn’t activate by the crash itself.

 

Those crashes Prowl was genuinely afraid of.

 

But as time went on without any difficult emotional seizures, leading to crashes, Prowl relaxed slightly. And with it, came the desire to do something different for once. And so –after two quartexes from moving in –Prowl dared to venture into the city of Iacon to explore.

 

It was late evening, a time when he knew many of his peers set out to the city and to the popular student bars and restaurants there. He’d never been to one, but had heard others talk about it more than once. No-one in Iacon seemed to much care he could hear every single conversation around him, even in the cafeterias where the clamor of the crowd was near deafening. Prowl hand long since learned to sort the sensory input in a way that didn’t give him a splitting processor ache, and now just tried to not listen what other’s talked about.

 

Often times he was so engrossed in whatever he was doing he barely registered his surroundings let alone listening what others were talking about. But a place called _Molten_ came up frequently enough to have stuck in his processor. Since he knew nothing of the city, he figured he might as well start by going there.

 

Marrum had told him to at least try socializing, so going to Molten would be as good of a start as any. Prowl had washed and waxed his plating before leaving. Praxians might love their fabrics and soft clothing, going as far as even wearing loose shawls and cloaks, but Iaconians loved color. This showed in beautifully painted frames and designs. A natural consequence was their desire and appreciation for cleanliness and well-waxed finish. If Prowl had been in Praxus, he wouldn’t have cared, but Iacon was different.

 

Each city had their own peculiarities. At least this wasn’t Kaon, a city state that had a strange fascination with scars. Kaonites were weird. Their favorite sport was _gladiator fighting_.

 

Upon reaching the road, he collapsed into his two-wheeled alt-mode. He had hoped for four wheels and had been a bit disappointed when he realized he had only developed two after his t-cog finally formed, but two-wheeled form had its own advantages.

 

Like speed and maneuverability in heavy traffic. Prowl could easily weave between the heavier vehicles and slide in narrow spaces no-one else could fit. This way he could travel easily during business hour, a trait he was thankful for.

 

By driving through Iacon he also got the chance to admire the architecture. Iacon truly was magnificent. It might not be the leading city in architecture and construction –a title which belonged to Simfur –but it was the most magnificent. Glass, crystals, shining metal and gleaming paint, even marble and granite of the oldest buildings, it was no wonder Iacon was such a popular travel destination. Its wealth could be seen on the streets as well, since even the poorer areas were not as run-down as most cities. It was also the oldest of the city-states, and it showed. Sculptures and carvings were everywhere.

 

Prowl twisted and flared his sensory wings, highly mobile even in his alt mode (which was another advantage; four-wheeled forms had a fixed position for sensory wings as the doors of the alt mode) and taking in everything he could. Well before arriving to the club, he transformed to walk the rest of the way, to truly take in the city. Optics always took details in better.

 

He could hear the music from Molten before he saw it. Sensors flaring, he hesitated at the entrance. Was this truly the kind of place he wanted to enter? It looked busy, mechs packed in close, loud and casually brushing against each other. Their fields so interwoven the air itself felt heavy. He could feel the strong, fluctuating electromagnetic field, overcharged and crackling from _outside_ the club. What would it feel like on the inside?

 

Prowl retreated a few steps, his own field compressing and flattening until it rested under his plating. His armor shifted more defensively as he considered his options. He’d come this far. Marrum had told him he should try new things, at least once. If he didn’t like it, he didn’t need to do it again, but he should step outside his comfort zone every once in a while. Marrum was a wise femme, and Prowl would heed her advice.

 

Straightening, he walked into the establishment, pinging the right amount of credit for entrance to the mech standing by the door. A bouncer?

 

The inside was just as bad as he’d feared. The music was loud and messed with his sensor, he’d only walked six steps and two mechanisms had already brushed his frame! And there was absolutely no escape of the fields surrounding him, pressing heavily against his plating. Determinedly he hardened his own into a shield, unreadable and barely detectable, a protective measure to avoid unwanted field teeks. A skill he had mastered when he’d only been a small sparkling.

 

Cautiously he made his way to the bar, figuring he could order some fancy drink of mild high-grade –there was no way in _pit_ he was going to touch _engex_ –and sip it at some corner table. After he was done he could leave. Then he could say he’d been to a bar and didn’t care for it. Reaching the bar he gazed at the menu, understanding nothing of it. For a moment he stared, before asking the mech behind the bar to make him something mild and acidic. The mech raised an optical ridge but started putting together a drink.

 

Prowl fidgeted, out of his element and decidedly uncomfortable. Suddenly he realized he was picking out a familiar spark signature.

 

“Prowl?” The voice was familiar as well. Twisting, he managed to face the speaker. A Praxian frame, deep magenta and smooth gray, Prowl recognized Lippa. A femme several vorns older, but who had attended some of the same classes as he. And one he had argued repeatedly with on several topics, most of them ending in a fight. Lippa was a bright femme, now beautiful and sleek, nearly fully upgraded and at last vestiges of younglinghood. Her family had moved to Iacon a vorn or two after Prowl had been discharged from the hospital and apparently had chosen to study in University as well.

 

Now Lippa stood in front of him with several of her friends, judging by how they crowded around her, and how she let them so casually to lean on her. Prowl swallowed nervously, but greeted her politely.

 

“Lippa, good orn.” (Manners, manners, Marrum had thought him how to do this meet and greet –thing.) Giving her a polite wing tip of greeting, he continued. “It’s nice to see you, how are you? ” Apparently Lippa was just as surprised to see him as he was of her, because it took her several clicks to return his greeting. Eventually she flicked her wings to shake off her surprise and then dipped them politely.

 

“Prowl! It’s been too long! And I’m good, I like living here in Iacon. Here, let me introduce you to my friends.” Turning to the three mechs and two femmes around her she introduced them by designation before explaining how she knew Prowl. A mech called Dancer, tall and handsome, smiled at Prowl. “Hi, it’s nice to meet a friend of Lippa’s. And another Praxian, too. Want to join us?” he asked, gesturing towards as empty table. “That’s our table, we were off to order some drinks.”

 

Prowl glanced at the table, deeming it just as good as any other place to sit, and nodded. “Thank you for the invitation. I have already ordered, so I’ll go and sit while you get yours.” With this he reached for his drink, paid for it and headed towards the empty table, trying to avoid any touches from the mechs around him.

 

He didn’t have to wait for long before the others joined him. Conversation flowed, energetic and loud, and Prowl mostly sat at one corner, content to listen and interject every once in a while. This was nice, it had been a good idea to go out. But all of his good feelings vanished faster than metal flew to a power magnet when Lippa turned to him, field alight and a smile on her face and asked;

 

“Speaking of my procreators, how’s your progenitor, his designation was Quickrun, wasn’t it?”

 

To hear the designation Prowl had avoided so hard to even think, let alone say out loud, shocked him more than he had thought it could. Feeling unbalanced all of a sudden, he hissed with more anger than he intended at Lippa. “It’s none of your business!” Realizing his wings were flared aggressively due to his reaction to hearing Quickrun’s designation, he drew back and tried to force them to a less threatening position.

 

Lippa had drawn back at the sharp retort, optics wide and wings in sharp angle of surprise, but her shock was fading off as anger at the treatment she was receiving took its place. Around her, her friend had gone quiet, clearly unhappy with Prowl’s behavior. Even as the silence continued, their expressions started to shift to irritation as their surprise at the sudden and unexpected reaction wore off.

 

Prowl had wrangled his emotions back under his control and was coming to a conclusion he should apologize. But he had taken too long and Lippa’s temper had flared.

 

“You have no right to speak to me like that!” Optics blazing and engex feeding her emotions she was gearing up for a fight, habit she’d developed from previous interactions with him. Her friends added their voices to hers, displeasure clear in their tone and frame language.

 

“I see you haven’t changed much, still rude and always starting arguments! Do you still throw things around? Or get into actual fights? Are you now one of those sick mechs who like to hurt others?!” She still remembered how he’d outright attacked others, claws out and screaming his fury when he’d been a youngling. Every single mech in the school had heard of the incidences.

 

Prowl was trying to pack further into the corner, now slightly scared and converting it neatly to anger. “Shut up! Don’t go saying stupid slag like that when you know nothing! Do you have scrap for a processor or are you just stupid?” insults sprung to his mind, flowing out of his vocalizer before he even though about it, a part of his processor hoping Lippa would keep quiet about what she knew if he just yelled at her enough. “I haven’t fought with anyone since I was sparkling!” It was a lie, but it came out anyway. Lippa didn’t let it slide.

 

“Liar! You’ve always been weird, I heard you’re glitched now, too. No wonder you attack people!”

Desperation joined fear and anger as Lippa voiced the one thing he didn’t want to hear. His hand shot out to grab her arm, to make a point even as he hissed his answer. “I wouldn’t hurt anyone! I haven’t hurt anyone! And damn you to the Pit, femme.” He tugged at her arm, not enough to hurt her, but Lippa got scared anyway. Twisting her arm she yanked it out of Prowl’s grasp, even as one of her friend intervened, pushing Prowl harshly enough to make him fall.

 

Prowl fell against the seat he’d been sitting on, before tipping and falling to the floor, even as the mechs snarled words reached his sensors. “Don’t touch her, you glitched fragger!” Prowl scrambled to his pedes, seeing all six mechanisms glaring at him. A scan of his surroundings showed they had attracted the attention of the staff, and two mechs were already making their way through crowds towards their table.

 

Ashamed of his behavior and alarmed by the turn of events, Prowl dipped his wings in apologetic gesture before making a hasty retreat. He pushed his way past the mass of patrons to the door and outside, transforming the moment he reached the road.

 

What had happened? He’d been doing so well and then, before he even realized it, they were arguing. And Lippa wouldn’t keep her intake shut, she’d tell every single rumor and tale she’d heard about him, and she’d tell them to others and rumors would spread. Primus, soon everyone would think he’d be some aggressive freak, who attacked others because he was a glitched mess!

 

His spark spun and ached, emotions swelling and suddenly Prowl recognized the painful pressure in his cortex. He was going to crash! Now panicked, he cast out his sensors for a place with privacy. His thoughts were already muddled, thoughts circulating and thought-trees leading nowhere, small tremors starting on his left side. Quickly he transformed even as he registered a closed park only a few steps away. He had to get there before he crashed, he _had to._

Staggering, tremors on his left side graduating to jerks and spreading, he doggedly continued to drag himself towards the safety of the park. He barely made it through the entrance and out of sight, half aware and optics flickering, before his whole frame seized and he fell into a crash.

 

Xx

 

Jazz considered Iacon to be more his home than he ever had Polyhex. Sure, he’d emerged and grown in the city of music, dance and rich culture. It showed, too, and not only in his speech-patterns. After reaching the blurry border between younglinghood and adulthood, he’d backed his belongings and left for Iacon. He’d joined the Military Academy and had excelled. Due to his considerable social and acting skills as well as musical talent, he’d soon found himself recruited for undercover work.

 

His chosen function was hard, with long missions, danger, and subversion but Jazz thrived in it. He worked in Iacon Intelligence Agency, which ran operations spanning several cities. Each city had it’s own governing body, culture, law enforcement and special operations. And few took it kindly when the local law enforcement of the _neighborhood city-state_ tried to take over due to investigating incidence that had spread over city borders. Thus, Iacon held the only law enforcing body with the rights to operate freely in any city. In addition they investigated any rumors of illegalities within large corporates with enough power and money to buy a small city-state. They kept taps on nobles who got a bit too arrogant and thought themselves over the law, as well as large organized crime or powerful politicians.

 

In short, they kept the powerful and influential in leash. And Jazz was one of their best, a rising star among the new agents.

 

One of the aspects he loved maybe the most, was how he got to see so much of Cybertron. It was completely different to visit a city-state as a tourist rather than through work. When Jazz worked, either undercover or as part of the local Special Operations division or the enforcers, he got to see the mundane side of the city. He saw the mechs who lived there while they were working through the orn, what they ate, how they lived.

 

Completely different to just seeing the tourist attractions. Not to mention those missions where he went undercover as a criminal. Now _that_ offered a visceral and painful side of the city. Jazz thought it told a lot about the city how the poorest and the criminals lived. A city could have a beautiful front but dark and ugly underbelly.

 

Iacon was like this. At surface the city was breathtakingly beautiful, but dig a little deeper and a lot of ugliness could be found. Iacon was a city of skill and brilliance, but it was also the city of the cruel, greedy and arrogant. The hierarchy could be merciless, where your reputation and past mattered more than your skill, the nobles ruled and corruption was high. Lately, unemployment had been on the rise and along with it, criminality.

 

Despite the ugliness, Jazz still loved Iacon. It was a place for contradictions.

 

He’d been working on the longest mission he’d done thus far, and had only just returned. He’d been sent out as a singer to investigate a noble who had an unaccounted and suspiciously profitable source of income. Local spec. ops had discovered a wide web of connections selling anything from drugs to mechs –living or just parts. Ugly as some of the things Jazz had seen, he couldn’t help but feel smug about the mission. He had gathered condemning amount of evidence and with an _epic_ amount of cooperation from several different factions the whole _ring_ had been brought down.

 

It wasn’t often they had a victory as clean as this one.

 

But he’d been acting as someone else for a long time, always on guard and careful of every word he said, and now he was enjoying the freedom of being simply _Jazz_.

He planned to drive around some, enjoy the higher speed afforded by the wider highways, and then he’d go to a few clubs, drink engex, sing and dance. Or maybe just dance, he’d done enough singing for the moment. And if he was lucky, he’d take someone home for the night, frag through the dark cycle and sleep like a newling through the next few orns.

 

Air currents felt good on his plating as he drove, turning to a road leading to a bar he had often populated as a student. It would be a good place to start, familiar but with a good atmosphere. It had a lot of young patrons from the University so Jazz preferred to pick his berth partners from somewhere else, which was another reason to start here. Something lightsparked and fun to start his dark cycle.

 

He turned to a quieter street, choosing to take the smaller, calmer streets to the club, when something white flashed at the corner of his optical field. Jazz hit the breaks, something about the movements of the mech looked wrong, like he was having trouble and not the kind that came from drinking too much highgrade.

 

Even as he cast his sensors to take a better look at the mech staggering toward a park entrance he transformed and started stride towards the retreating figure. The mech seemed young, and was obviously in trouble. His movements were weird, as if the left side wasn’t responding properly, the left pede dragging behind, then jerking violently enough to nearly topple the mech, before slowly relaxing a bit.

 

When the mech vanished through the entrance, Jazz started running. Something was wrong! Was the mech _glitching!?_

 

When he turned around the corner, he saw the frame crumbled on the ground, seemingly slowly relaxing from what Jazz could only determine to be a tonic seizure. He crashed to his knees next to the slight form on the ground, noticing the sensory wings even as he pushed the mech around, taking in the frame and looking for any external wounds. He pinged the mechs systems, not expecting an answer since the mechs was clearly offline, and was surprised to receive an answering ping.

 

Soon he realized it wasn’t an answer, not precisely, but a prerecorded answer for precisely this kind of situation. It was short and to the point, containing nothing more than the absolute necessary: _I am not in danger, I am having a seizure-crash. If I do not recover in expected time, my medical tracker will activate. Please ensure my frame is not in danger and I have a safe place to recover._

Jazz sat back, relieved. This was a pre-existing condition, and the mech would be fine. Poor thing though, to have such a condition as a permanent thing. Now that he wasn’t so frantic, he could take the time to observe the mech closer. He was young, still a youngling and clearly a Praxian. His sensory wings were large and looked rather fascinating. Jazz hadn’t yet had the chance to visit Praxus on any mission, so he was curious about the frame type seen rarely outside the city.

 

Praxians didn’t often feel the need to leave their home. This one was maybe a student. He was such a small thing, though, all arms and legs. And wings, too. White plating with black and red added to the mix, bearing some resemblance to his own paint job, in fact. Jazz leaned in closer. Yes, their shades of white and black were almost exactly the same, although Jazz’ own coloring was black with white added in and some blue to brighten the mix. Both of them stood out in the colorful crowd in Iacon for their plain coloring.

 

Jazz reached out, touching the frame slightly while he monitored the vitals, just in case. The plating was warm, the paint looked healthy and felt smooth. Spark output was regular and circulations were slowly returning towards normal parameters. The vents were slowly gaining their rhythm, too. Jazz shifted his servo so he could pull the other to lie on their side, deeming it safe enough to move the offlined mech. He arranged the limbs so the smaller would stay on his side, and the leaned over to arrange the wings so they wouldn’t hurt when the mech onlined. Then, he settled to sit on the ground, waiting for the mech to wake while running periodical scans to make sure everything remained stable.

 

He hummed to himself as he waited, songs flowing in his processor constantly. Jazz’s helm was never quiet. There was always a piece of music looping in his processor, or a song playing on his internal radio. His origin said Jazz had emerged with music already in his little processor, his progenitor added that the music had never stopped afterwards. Jazz felt inclined to agree. For a while he’d been seriously considering a career in musical industry like his brother and progenitor, and had in fact spent vorns just performing, but maybe he had some Kaonite in his spark, for Jazz wanted adventures.

 

The thrill of performing didn’t quite compare to the thrill of sneaking in the dark to trap unsuspecting idiots with their own lies. In the end he had still managed to compromise, since he often played a musician of some sort when he needed another profession for his cover.

 

The mechling moved, sensory wings twitching. Jazz stopped his humming to observe as the mech fought his way to semi-coherency.

 

Optics flickered on, shining deep golden and clearly unfocused. Jazz frowned slightly, but put on a friendly smile and leaned in so the other could see him.

 

“Hi there. Mah nam’s Jazz. Ye doin’ okay, kid?” Confused blink and more wing twitches were his only answer. Apparently waking from a crash like this was no easy thing. Jazz reached out with his field, offering _safe/comfort/friendly_ only to feel the other withdraw, field flattening over plating, wings tucking in and frame curling on itself.

 

“Shu, shu” Jazz crooned, trying to calm the kid, “Ah’m nothin’ to be afraid o’, now uncurl a wee bit, yoo’re fine, Ah’m fine, everythin’s fine. No danger ‘ere, kiddo.” Jazz kept up a litany of more or less comforting words, pitching his voice even lower than his already smooth bass. He spoke slowly, unhurriedly, and kept his tone gentle. He knew he had a pleasant voice and pitched it in a way that was more monotone singing than talking.

 

Slowly, trying to make sure his hand was in view, he reached out to touch one white shoulder. The kid flinched at first, but he was calming. His optics were gaining focus and he seemed to reach actual coherency, looking at Jazz with sharp optics, wary and guarded. Jazz smiled again, voice gentle.

 

“Ye back wi’ me, kid? Seems like ye were pretty out o’ it.” This time he got a groan and uncoordinated attempt to sit up. Jazz reached out to help, relieved the mechling didn’t flinch from his touch this time. Together they got the mechling more or less sitting up, leaning heavily forward and braced against both Jazz as well as his own arms. His balance was off and his helm hung low, the movements seemed pained as well. Jazz spark went out for the mechling, he was alone, disorientated and in pain.

 

“Is there anyain Ah could call fur ye? A friend, procreator?” There was no way this kid could make his way home under his own power, he had trouble sitting up and had yet to say a word to Jazz. Even now, he only got a fleeting look and a shake of the helm, accompanied by more wing movement. “Should Ah call a medic?” This time the helm shake was more vehement. Jazz sighed, then nudged the mechling slightly. “C’mon, work wi’ me, Ah cannae just leave ye here. Let’s start wi’ somethin’ small, yeah? What’s yer nam’?”

 

Finally the kid looked at him properly, and Jazz could see just how uncomfortable and ashamed the other was by the situation. Well, who wouldn’t be, collapsing in a public base and having to have a stranger hovering over him. He stared at Jazz’ visor and seemed to be searching for something, probably trying to determine if he could trust Jazz’ help. His expression didn’t change, but eventually he answered, static still audible in his voice.

 

“Prowl.”

 

Jazz gave a subdued chuckle, the mechling was cute. He adjusted his hold on Prowl’s shoulders to see if he could sit on his own. The moment he lessened his grip, Prowl started to list to the side. “Whoa, okay, we’ll try this sittin’ thin’ later when yoo’ve got yer balancin’ gyros sorted out.” Prowl had tried to compensate, but his movement were so uncoordinated they didn’t much help. Without Jazz he would have fallen. Jazz looked around, the noise from the street uncomfortably close.

 

“If ye want, Ah can move ye tae a better place tae rest. Or just further in, so ye can have more privacy. We can sit there and ye can recover.” Prowl tilted his helm to look at the park, only to almost fall on his faceplates, Jazz quickly shifted his hold again to stabilize him. Prowl turned his gaze back on Jazz.

 

“I need to sleep this off. My balance won’t reset without a power down. I need to go home.” Despite being able to hold optic contact, Prowl’s optics still faded in and out of focus. It wasn’t as obvious but Prowl was still out of it. Even as Jazz watched, Prowl’s optics started to wander, sliding to the side and unfocusing. Primus, this was no joke, the kid was helpless like this!

 

“Prowl, c’mon. What are ye supposed tae do when ye crash like this? Ye cannae make it home on yer own.” Jazz tapped Prowl’s cheekplate slightly to make him look back at him. Prowl gave a distracted hum. “I either go home, or sleep. I can call a medic as well.” Here his optics sharpened and he looked at Jazz with more coherency than before. “But I don’t want to call a medic.”

 

“Aw, kiddo.” Jazz sighed. He thought for a moment, Prowl leaning more and more heavily against him until Jazz hold was closer to a hug than anything else. “Hey, Prowler, how’bout we do like this. Ah’ call a transport tae take ye home, Ah’ll pay for it and everything an’ make sure they take ye to yer berth.”

 

Agreeable hum.

 

Jazz chuckled again, and called for private transport. He wrapped his arms around the mechling and stood, dragging Prowl up with him. Prowl didn’t seem to like the change in position. His servos scrabbled for purchase, likely because his world was tilting like a transport in acid storm, and wound themselves around the ridges if Jazz’ armor. His helm had fallen forward to press against the dip between Jazz’s arm and chassis and didn’t seem inclined to lift his helm. His wings were fluttering madly, Jazz assumed the poor mechling was trying to make sense of the sensory data.

 

Jazz adjusted his hold again. It wasn’t difficult to keep Prowl upright; the kid was a two-wheeler, shorter than him and scrawny as pit. And Jazz wasn’t the tallest bot himself. One arm wrapped around Prowl’s waist was enough to keep him upright. This close it was easier to teek Prowl’s field. He was upset, embarrassed and in pain. At least he didn’t seem to be overly threatened by Jazz, judging him to be your average passerby willing to simply help. Prowl’s field had a muddy feeling to it, which told of impaired cognitive function. Jazz let him be, it seemed the mechling was already half-way to recharge. He dragged Prowl to the park entrance to wait for the transport.

 

Xx

 

The transport was a problem. The mech flat-out refused to let Prowl in alone.

“I’m not going to take him in, Primus knows what kind of crazy he might be! And I slagging well won’t walk him to his apartment door, either. I don’t care where he lives, I’m not doing it.”

 

Jazz was pissed, the mech was talking too loud and was just plain rude. Being this close Jazz very well the mechling was following the conversation and getting more and more upset every click.

 

“Listen, mech. The kid’s fine, he’s jist a bit disorientated. He’ll probably drop intae recharge before ye even get there. Jist help him tae his door so he’ll be safe. It’s part of yer fragging _job_ tae make sure yer customers get tae their homes safely!”

 

The transport mech bristled his armor in anger and didn’t change his stance. “And I don’t care. I have the right to choose my customers and I’m telling you, I’m not taking some glitched mess!”

 

Against Jazz, Prowl flinched and Jazz had enough. “Fine, ye bigoted bastard! Jist transform and take us both tae the address he gi’es ye, and Ah want a discount fer usin’ slurs.” The mech opened his mouth to argue, but Jazz gave him a murderous look that made him rethink. With a belligerent nod the transport mech transformed and opened his doors. Jazz helped Prowl in, before entering as well. Prowl pinged his address and they were off.

 

Jazz had propped Prowl against the opposite door so he could sit up on his own. The young Praxian looked miserable as he sat, hunched on himself. He looked like he was trying to disappear through the door. Jazz should have just said the kid was drunk when the transport asked. What was he thinking, he knew the stigma attached to glitches, but he and his closest friends were of the kind who judged others on how they behaved, not on what labels they had on their medical files. Angry at himself, he reached out to Prowl, trying to offer comfort through his field.

 

Prowl seemed skittish and shy, and the Jazz assumed the field would be withdraw, but to his surprise, Prowl allowed their fields to mingle, seemingly drawing comfort from Jazz. In return Jazz pushed comfort towards him and was relieved to see the sensory wings perk up slightly. The poor mech was already miserable enough, at least it seemed Jazz could offer some comfort.

 

Jazz didn’t know how, but he already felt like he liked this mechling despite not exchanging more than few words with him. Jazz wanted to get to know him, which would require some conversation.

 

“Yer a student in the University, right.” It was more of an opening statement for conversation than a question, and to Jazz delight Prowl took it. He moved his optics away from the window he’d been looking through to answer, his optics focusing on Jazz with more accuracy than before.

 

“Yes, I’m studying strategy and statistics.”

 

This gave Jazz a pause. “Strategy and statistics? Unusual combination.” Prowl only nodded, leaning heavily against the door.

“Among other things. I like them.” Jazz hummed in thought, shrugging his shoulders. “Tae each their own, right” He smiled, leaning his head against his servo, which was propped against the window ledge, posture relaxed. “Ah studied in th’ Military Academy, bin some time since th’ last time Ah was on campus. What do ye like about th’ subjects?”

 

The discussion that was spurred from this question lasted them easily to the campus area. Jazz was frankly amazed how well Prowl could hold a conversation on the subject despite his disorientation. He still paused every once in a while, loosing track on what he was about to say or losing his words, but despite this, he still managed to claw together a lecture on statistics and mathematics.

 

When they arrived to the campus building, Prowl didn’t seem to quite realize they had arrived, he continued talking even as Jazz dragged him out and continued as Jazz paid the transporter (he did get his discount). He didn’t stop even as Jazz wrapped one arm around his waist and used the other to drag Prowl’s arm around his shoulder. Prowl was so much shorter the position was rather awkward but Jazz managed.

 

He was rather amused that Prowl seemed to be stuck on his explanation enough to lose track of everything else, but he supposed Prowl’s processor probably just decided it was something it could still do and jammed. Prowl did seem a bit more settled as he talked. His balance improved and he started to hold his helm better. His pedes moved with more coordination and his optics cleared.

 

Jazz saved a memo for future that the after-effects of Prowl’s crash eased if he was talking either about something he liked or something logical. Maybe it was both. Then he realized what he’d done and nearly stopped making his way to the elevator.

 

For the future? What made him think he’d ever see Prowl again? Jazz glanced back down at Prowl who had quieted, looking a bit chagrined at having babbled like he had. He squeezed his servo wrapped around Prowl’s waist. “Hey, don’t look like that, Ah liked listenin’ to ye.”

 

Then, because to the pit with it, he never did put too much weight on social rules anyway, he asked:

 

“If ye want, Ah wouldn’t be opposed tae meetin’ ye later, when ye can talk all proper with me. Ah get yoo’re a bit out of it still. We could hang out.”

 

Jazz called the elevator, not looking at Prowl right away. But there was no mistaking the astonished disbelief in the field touching his. Prowl had _not_ been expecting this. He glanced down at the wide golden optics staring at his, offering a grin. “What? Ah think yoo’re cool, but if ye dinnae want tae, that’s okay, too.”

 

Prowl opened his mouth, but out came only static. He reset his vocalizer, before managing to ask:

“You found me glitching on the ground, had to take me home, and to pay for the transport and you want to meet me again?” his voice, soft tenor, came out strangled. Jazz pretended to think, pursuing his mouth and looking up in mock-thought. Then looking down at Prowl with a wide grin.

 

“Yup!”

 

Prowl stared at him for a moment longer, field as unreadable as his expression. Then a small smile lit his face. A shy nod was all the answer Jazz got, but Jazz was beginning to realize Prowl was naturally a mech of few words…. when he wasn’t talking about mathematics, anyway. He only laughed, and adjusted his hold on Prowl before dragging him to the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think about Jazz accent? It's Scottish, because I like Scottish accent. I think every city-state used to have their own language. When the deep for easier communication became they developed Cybertronian Standard. At first everyone spoke with heavy accent, but with time it was smoothed out. Polyhexians love their culture and like to stay connected to their roots so they still have the accent. Nobles like to speak snobbish because they like to stand out from the rest. Jazz accent has nothin to do with social status and everything do with his culture.


End file.
